


The Hatchling (Balinor's Gift Remix)

by mabyn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Dragons, Gen, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-03 17:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10971819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabyn/pseuds/mabyn
Summary: Merlin has been entrusted with the last dragon egg all his life. It's been a very long life.





	The Hatchling (Balinor's Gift Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlocked18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Balinor's Gift](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9660740) by [Merlocked18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/pseuds/Merlocked18). 



> Thank you to M and D for the beta!

   
“Alright, mate?”

Merlin nodded in response to the sleepy-looking student in the shared loo but didn’t offer anything further. His vocal cords were long untested.

The boy raised an eyebrow. “Rough night?”

“Something like that.” Merlin’s voice came out unrecognisable even to himself. Rough _century_.

The boy eyed him. Merlin was aware he looked like hell; he’d frequented enough department store washrooms to have observed the gauntness in his cheeks and the dark rings around his eyes. The tattered clothes didn’t help, nor did the unkempt long beard and roughly cut hair. He clipped his whiskers and gave his face a cautious stroke with the razor. _Ow._ What the heck was wrong with a good old-fashioned blade, anyway?

“You might want to sleep this one in, then,” the boy said on his way out. “Mr. P can be a right wanker.”  
   
“Mr. P, eh?” Merlin muttered to his reflection as he patted down his hair. “Maybe this uni thing isn’t the best idea.” Immortality got a little tedious at times, the ebb and flow of his periods of reclusion followed by reemergence into society, only to discover again that the prophecy continued unfulfilled.  
   
Back in his room, a rumble in the cupboard jolted him from his meditation. Merlin opened the door and peered inside. He lifted the blanket to reveal the bluish egg his father had given him, cushioned just where he’d left it. Turning it over in his hands for inspection, he found its surface smooth and unblemished as it had always been during the many centuries Merlin had cared for it. The Great Dragon had long passed, and for contemporary humans, dragons were the stuff of legend. Yet the legacy Balinor had passed on to him was the most carefully guarded of Merlin’s long life. 

The egg shook again in his hands, which was a little odd if not unheard of. Occasionally the baby dragon inside shifted, but it wouldn’t hatch until Albion’s need was greatest, a moment Merlin both prayed would never come and yet still found himself perversely longing for. Still, it was the third time the egg had moved in the last few days, and it would be a good idea to keep a more watchful eye. He carefully packed the egg into his rucksack for safekeeping.  
   
It would be nine soon, and Merlin didn’t want to be late for the first lecture, a political science course on the historical evolution of the British parliamentary system. He jammed a notebook into his sack and prepared for another go at rejoining society.  
   
Students lounged on chairs in the halls lobby with thin wires protruding from their ears, oblivious to the noise coming from the large telly hung precariously (magically?) on the wall. 

_…concerned that Brexit could win the day. While Labour argues that inclusion has strengthened Britain’s economy and allowed its citizens unparalleled continental mobility, on the streets our reporters are hearing people tell a different story. Their primary fear? Immigration._  
   
What the heck was a Brexit? A few more minutes in front of the screen did little to enlighten Merlin, and he hurried on into the cold, grey morning.  
   
Merlin scored a seat in the back of the lecture hall. Students hugged friends they hadn’t seen since the previous year, others sat alone, and footballers jostled each other in greeting. A few rows down, two girls seemed lost in a kiss. Merlin was always amazed at how little the world changed as the years passed, and then how much some things did. Just before the thought could plunge him back into his usual meditative haze, the professor strode in, dropped a pile of books on the table, and shrugged off his blazer.  
   
“Greetings. I’m Professor Pendragon and this is Political Science 320, History of the British Parliamentary System.”  
   
Merlin stared. He dug through his sack and dragged out the crumpled up schedule. Professor Pendragon was written next to the course title. He looked at the professor again as he began to lecture. Mr. P. He was uncommonly good looking with a square jaw, light-colored hair, and a solid frame. A few students whispered to each other and blushed.    
   
It wasn’t the first time Merlin had glimpsed men who reminded him of the great king of old. In the many years that had passed, scores had shared his noble visage, broad shoulders, sometimes, more rarely, his smile. But what _had_ Arthur looked like? Merlin found he no longer truly remembered. He tried to piece together the face, but after the long years, the image blurred. There had been a time when it had seemed like Arthur’s face was forever seared in his memory, and that even when it was almost too painful to recall, there was no purging it.  
   
Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, willing a clearer picture to surface and was frightened to discover that now only the face of his new professor came to his mind’s eye.  
   
Merlin slipped his hand into his rucksack and sought out the reassuring warmth of the egg inside, but not even the gentle pulse of the measured heartbeat could bring his own into alignment.  
   
He peered at the professor again. Terror — yes — if it was indeed — this was a response he had never predicted, but so many years had gone by, taking the fading image of Camelot along with it. Still, he had waited. That was all, in fact, he had ever done.

The professor’s lecture dwindled down to a whisper, and then quiet filled the room. He was walking up the rows, staring at Merlin, his lips forming a round _o_. A student coughed, and others were looking nervously between the professor and Merlin.

“I … I know you.” The professor was close enough now that Merlin could just make out the whispered words.

He found himself rising to his feet as certainty took hold. “Yes.” He extended his hand, and the students collapsed asleep on their desks. “You are Artur.”  
   
Merlin’s voice took on that cadence that claimed it whenever his father’s powers came over him, and it reverberated throughout the hall in a deafening cry. The professor fell to his knees.    
   
From Merlin’s rucksack sprang the cry of a dragon newly hatched.


End file.
